To Be or Not To Be
by AJ Wesley
Summary: Post "It's A Terrible Life."  "You don't know me, pal.  You should go."  Now that Dean has his memory back, he has to find Sam.


To Be Or Not To Be

Coda to "It's A Terrible Life"

By AJ Wesley

"So are you with me? Are you going to steam yourself another latte? Or are you going to stand up…and be who you really are?"

Dean's hands curled into fists. This guy was seriously pissing him off. What was it with angels, anyway? He was so sick of being the pawn in someone else's game of chess. He was so—

Avoiding the subject.

Dean's eyes drifted around the office he'd occupied for the past three weeks. He remembered it. All of it. Every friggin' low-carb minute. He needed a burger, like, _now_. He reached up and loosened his tie, feeling like the walls were closing in on him.

Zachariah was watching him, patiently waiting for an answer. That calm, expectant look infuriated Dean. But…

Why was he so mad? Because the angels had used him again? Taught him yet another lesson? Or was it because they'd shown him the truth? Zach was right: hunting was in Dean's blood. He was damn good at it, even enjoyed it. Until recently, anyway, with things so… complicated. If only Sammy would—

Dean's eyes widened. "Sam."

He was only vaguely aware of the angel stepping aside to let him pass as he bolted out the door and down the hall to the elevator. He stabbed the "down" button over and over, as if that would bring the car any faster.

When he and Sam had been kids, it'd been a thrill to race to the elevator to see who got to push the button. Dean had usually let Sammy win; the beaming smile he got when the doors _ding_ed open made up for his loss. He remembered how Dad had swatted him upside the head when it took them fifteen minutes to get to the thirtieth floor because he'd let Sammy push every button on the panel...

The memory, even though it was a happy one, sent a pang of regret through Dean's chest.

_ You don't know me, pal. You should go._

How could he have denied his brother like that? The look of sadness on Sam's face when Dean had dismissed him was painful to remember. Sam had known. He'd _known_. And maybe deep down, Dean had known, too. So…why had he sent Sam away? What was he afraid of?

"Come on," he growled, stabbing the button again.

Oh, wait. The elevators had been cordoned off due to the "unfortunate accident" with the security guard. Dean turned and headed back for the stairs, catching sight of Zachariah standing just outside Dean Smith's office. Dean's eyes met the angel's and, in that brief moment, he saw something in Zachariah's expression that made his stomach ache. He sucked in a breath and rushed through the stairwell door.

**~oooOOOooo~**

There was a lot of murmuring going on in Tech Support. Dean knew something was up as soon as his feet hit the floor at the base of the stairs. Heads turned, gazes and whispers following him as he walked down the aisle. This was more than just a-suit-has-entered-the-room behavior.

Dean latched onto the arm of a passerby. "I'm looking for Sam…uh…Wesson's cubicle?"

"Join the crowd." At Dean's baffled look, the guy threw a nod over his shoulder at the group of people clustered near the center of the room.

_Oh,__no_. Dean broke into a run, bolting around the corner and shoving people out of his way. "What's going on?" he asked, breathless, his eyes taking in the busted phone, the iron poker they'd used on Sandover. "Where's Sam?"

A man with "Supervisor" stitched on his shirt looked up from the box he was loading. Dean couldn't resist glancing inside. Was that a Dracula bobblehead—?

"It's all right, sir. We have everything under control." The guy used a screwdriver to pry Sam's nameplate off the wall.

Dean grabbed the man's wrist before he could drop the sign into the box. "Where's Sam?" he demanded again.

Startled, the man said, "Gone."

"Gone? What do you mean 'gone'?"

"He left. He quit. Didn't even give his notice." The guy looked at his arm, still firmly held in Dean's grip. "Can I have my hand back now, sir?"

Sam was gone? Why would he just leave?

_ You should go._

Yeah. That was why. "How long?"

"What?"

Pinning the guy with a glare, Dean gritted out, "How long ago did he leave?"

"About noon?"

Dean let him go, snatching the nameplate from his hand, and headed out. He needed to find Sam. But…where did he start? Noon. Sam had left over three hours ago. He could be anywhere.

With a curse, Dean slammed through the door to the emergency stairwell and bounded down the steps to the main level. His anxiety building, he reached up a shaking hand to yank at the tie that seemed to be getting tighter and tighter around his neck. Like a noose, choking, suffocating. He needed to get out of this place, now.

The tie came loose, and he tossed it aside as he burst through the door into the main lobby. The building exit was within reach. Dean headed for the light like it was salvation. Maybe it was. They wanted him to stop the apocalypse? Fine. But he wasn't facing his destiny without Sam.

"You hear me, Zach?" he gritted out. "Not without my brother."

The front doors were cold, the wind outside fought him as he pushed on the glass, but Dean finally stepped out onto the sidewalk, free at last. January in Ohio. Damn. With a shiver, Dean looked up and down the street. A steady stream of traffic passed by, and somewhere down the street a car horn blared, the sound bouncing off the tall buildings that surrounded Sandover Bridge and Iron. There were more people on the sidewalk than he'd expected to see. And not a trace of the one person he'd hoped to.

His body sagged, exhaustion creeping in. He had absolutely no idea where to begin looking. He shoved his hands into his pockets—

Keys. And… Dean drew his right hand out and looked at the small piece of paper he was certain hadn't been there before: a parking garage ticket. The Impala. He remembered now. He'd admired the classic Chevy nearly every morning when he parked the—God help him—Prius. She'd been right there under his nose the whole time. If only finding Sam were that convenient.

He practically ran the five blocks to the garage, took the stairs three at a time to the second level.

There she was. Not far from where he was standing, she was a sight for sore eyes. She was home. Dean approached her, his hand gliding lovingly over the trunk and along her side as he headed for the driver's-side door. She was one piece of his life back; now he just needed to find the other. He would search the whole city for as long as it took to locate Sam.

Key in the lock, Dean froze. He glanced around, certain he'd heard something. Something…like the clink of a glass bottle hitting cement. And it sounded like it was coming from…

Dean crept toward the front of the car. There, back against the cement half-wall of the garage, too-long legs drawn up, arms at his sides, was the object of his search. And suddenly Dean was able to breathe again. "Sammy?"

Sam's hand moved, knocking into the empty beer bottle beside it. Eyes flicked up, then quickly darted away. "I thought we agreed you weren't going to call me that."

Okay, that answered _that_ question. Damn it. "Look, Sam—"

Sam scrambled to his feet and started backing away, looking from the car to Dean. "I'm sorry, man. I didn't know this was your car. I'll—"

"Yes, you did."

That stopped him. "Excuse me?"

Dean inched closer, moving slowly. "You knew this was my car." He swallowed. "You knew this was _our_ car."

"Don't."

"You were right, Sam."

"Stop." There was a hint of desperation in his voice.

Dean wasn't sure whether Sam was telling him to stop talking or to stay back. He stood still. "You were right about everything." Sam was searching his eyes. Looking for the truth, Dean realized. "We _are_ hunters." He moved closer again, saw the rise and fall of Sam's chest as Sam fought to control his emotions. "We're brothers." He was close enough now to reach out and pluck at the yellow shirt. "This…" He tugged at his suit. "_This_ isn't who we are. You knew that, and you tried to tell me. I'm sorry, Sammy."

There was no reaction to the nickname this time. The worry lines smoothed out, leaving a hopeful curiosity in their place. "You…you remember, don't you? How did you—?"

"Angels, man. But I guess Zach hasn't gotten to you yet. I mean, Mr. Adler. You know him, right?"

He looked expectantly at Sam, but there was no answer. Nothing at all. Sam didn't even blink. Wasn't breathing either. What the hell? "Sam?" Dean reached out slowly, pressed a hand to his brother's chest directly over his heart. And felt nothing. "Sammy?"

"You never answered my question, Dean."

Dean spun…and came face to face with Zachariah. "You son of a bitch. What did you do to him?"

"Relax. Sam's fine. I simply pulled you out of time for a moment so we could chat."

"Chat?" Dean bit the word.

Zachariah waited him out.

"That's what this is all about?" Dean fumed. "Fine. Yes. Hunting is in my blood. Our blood. I'll be all that I can be, okay?" He hitched a thumb over his shoulder at his brother. "Now give Sam his memory back."

The angel regarded him with arms folded across his chest. "Are you sure that's what you really want?"

"Excuse me?" Dean asked, incredulous.

Zachariah's look was compassionate. Knowing.

Dean wanted to deck him.

"Look at him, Dean." The angel nodded at Sam. "Tell me what you see."

And suddenly Dean didn't want to. His chest tightened, making it hard for him to breathe. Slowly, he glanced over his shoulder, his body following the motion until he was facing Sam.

What did he see? He saw an expectant face, eyes that held a spark Dean had thought long extinguished. _Innocence_. A little brother he'd lost somewhere along the way. Sammy…

"He never has to remember, you know." Zachariah's breath whispered past his ear.

An angel on his shoulder, or…?

Moisture gathered in the corners of Dean's eyes. "What?" His voice cracked.

"Think about it, Dean. It would be the best of both worlds. You'd have your brother back. You can give him all the memories you want, but he never has to know about the demon blood, his powers… You could free him of that burden."

"Stop."

"It would make things so much easier, wouldn't it?"

"I said _stop_." Dean wheeled on the angel. "Why are you doing this?"

Zachariah leaned back against the hood of the Impala. "Consider it a gift."

Dean snorted derisively. "A gift?"

"It's what you wanted, isn't it? You're little brother back?"

The ache in Dean's chest spread through his body, weakening his knees, threatening to crush him. He looked back at Sam. Was that really what he wanted? His brother looked younger without those worry lines that never seemed to go away. Maybe this was a second chance. An opportunity to correct the mistakes of the last few years, to work together without the lies, the manipulation.

But… was he really _Sam_ without all his memories? Would he ever be? Would he really be free? Or just…

Demon bait.

Without his memories, Sam would be easy prey. There were still plenty of bad guys gunning for him. Then there was the whole apocalypse thing. And Ruby. She'd be more than happy to fill in the blanks.

Dean's mind spun back to the "life" the djinn had offered him. That had been a chance to start over, too, and it had all been a lie. What made this any different?

Okay, so Sam had changed. They both had. And somewhere around the time Sam had left for Stanford, Dean had realized his kid brother was growing up. He hadn't quite come to terms with it back then, but now? Sam was a man. And Dean had no right to choose a path for him, no matter what mistakes were made along the way. All he could do was what he had always done, always tried to do: protect him as best he could. Nudge him in the right direction and hope for the best. He owed Sam that much.

Yeah, the kid was a pain in the ass, but Dean loved him, had sold his soul for him. And he'd do it again, damn it. No matter how much they argued, how much they fought and yelled, the big geek meant more to Dean than anything else in the world. Whatever was coming, they would face it head on, together.

Squaring his shoulders, Dean turned back to Zachariah. "I want my brother back."

"Are you sure—?"

"Do it," Dean snapped.

There was a look on the angel's face, like the one he'd worn back in Dean Smith's office…like he'd known all along what the answer would be. Zachariah straightened, stepped up beside Dean, and reached out a hand. He paused just shy of touching Sam, as if offering Dean one more moment to reconsider, then pressed two fingers to Sam's forehead.

Sam dropped.

"Jeez!" Dean leaped forward and caught his brother under the arms. He hadn't been expecting that; he hadn't passed out when he'd gotten his memories back. Gently lowering Sam to the concrete floor, he glanced up at Zachariah.

The angel was gone. Dean didn't know whether to be relieved or concerned. But he had more important things to worry about right now. One important thing.

Giraffe legs folded beneath him, Sam slumped against Dean's chest, unmoving. Dean pushed him upright so he was sitting on his heels and braced him with a hand on his shoulder. Palming his brother's chin, he lifted the lolling head. "Sammy? Sam? Come on, man. You in there?" _Please._He didn't even want to dwell on how seeing Sam like this reminded him of Cold Oak…

Sam blinked lazily, then squinted. "Dean?" His gaze wandered, his brows drawing down.

Dean saw the moment it kicked in, feeling Sam's violent start.

"What the hell?" Sam gasped, gripping Dean's arms painfully.

"Easy, easy," Dean soothed. He ducked his head, following Sam's eyes until they finally focused on his. "You okay?"

His answer was a few panted breaths, then a nod. It was another moment before Sam managed a "Yeah." Then his gaze wandered again, to Dean's suit, his shirt, the garage. "It was— Did we—? I thought—"

Dean huffed a laugh. "Yes to all three."

Sam pressed the heel of one hand to the bridge of his nose, between his eyes. "Dean, what the hell happened?"

"Uh, yeah, how about we save that conversation for later, okay? It's friggin' cold. I'm freezing my—"

"Yeah, okay." Sam waved him off, pushing carefully to his feet.

"Still a prude." Dean grinned; his brother was back. "That's my boy."

Keeping a gentle hold on Sam's arm, he guided him to the car, then made sure Sam was settled in the passenger seat before letting go and heading around to the driver's side. Dean was anxious to get out of there, and not just because of the cold. He really wanted to put all this behind them. And get out of the damn suit. He pulled open the car door and slipped into the driver's seat, allowing himself a moment of quiet pleasure as his hands caressed the steering wheel. Beside him, Sam plucked absently at his Sandover shirt.

"Oh," Dean said suddenly, reaching into the inside pocket of the tailored suit. "I almost forgot." He pulled the nameplate out and flipped it at his brother. "Souvenir."

Sam snorted. "Right." He ran his fingers over the printing. "Smith and Wesson?"

"Who knew angels had a sense of humor, huh?" Dean breathed a sigh of relief. They were home. He tossed a grin at Sam, then frowned at the puzzled look on his brother's face. "Sammy?"

The call snapped Sam out of his thoughts, and he looked across the seat at Dean. "Tomorrow's your birthday."

Dean gaped, doing a quick mental calculation. Yep. Of all the things for Sam to remember… He pulled a face. "Shut up."

"Hey…" With a hint of a smile, Sam shifted sideways in the seat so he was facing Dean. "…aren't you the big 3-0 this year?"

_So_ not funny. "Shut up, Sam."

His annoying little brother canted his head. "Getting old, dude," Sam said with a grin as he slid to face forward again.

Dean mimicked him as he started the car, knowing he sounded all of about ten and not really caring. What was that saying about being careful what you wished for? "I think I liked you better without your memory."

It wasn't true. But if Sam's laughter was any clue, his brother already knew.


End file.
